


Last Gasp

by littlewonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlewonder/pseuds/littlewonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is alone. Badly wounded, he drags himself into 221B Baker Street only to find no hope of rescue. Clinging to the memory of John, he fights for consciousness and survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Gasp

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a prompt from Pinterest. Someone had added a story paragraph to a picture, and I decided to make a 500 word story out of it. So the first paragraph isn't mine. 
> 
> I've been looking for the link... Here it is: http://www.pinterest.com/pin/66287425741065721/

Sherlock slumped against the wall, trying not to pass out from the pain. He attempted to find the strength to climb up the flight of stairs that lead to his apartment. Sherlock wanted to call for somebody, ANYBODY, to help him. But Mrs. Hudson was out, and John...well...he had moved out 3 months ago to live with his wife, Mary. Sherlock bit back tears. He had never needed someone so desperatley. Until now.

 

The stairs loomed in front of him like an army exercise course. But he wasn’t John, and he really did cry now. He wailed right there at the bottom of the staircase, not even thinking about if anyone was listening.

He had to get to the top of the stairs, just had to. But he only gripped to the very end of the rail, pulling himself forwards without the courage or strength to move forwards.

And then, step by step, inch by inch, he pulled himself to the top, swaying and staggering with every stilted step forwards.

Finally, he reach the top, leaning finally against the wall. The bleeding wound was more profuse now, there was more blood, the pain beyond any sense of entry. He remained certain that removing the bullet would only release more blood.

He wobbled to the door, fiddling with his keys until he was inside. When he was, he leaned back against the door, huffing heavily. He remained there.

Sherlock did what he had always done when he felt an emotion that ran as deep as this, and shot at the wall. It held his attention enough, at least, to remain awake. But no one else was here, no one would run to help, and despite his ever-current sense of outrage at most of his life, there was no satisfaction in shooting the wall anymore.

He dropped the gun on the couch. It was John’s gun. He must’ve left it behind when he moved out. Fuck.

He called the ambulance. They tried to talk him through it, but he had no interest in anybody’s opinion but John’s. He hung up.

He sank down on the couch, next to John’s gun. He sat down next to it as if it were a living person, as if it were John.

“John,” he said out loud. “John…”

He would not commit the stupidity, at least, of talking out loud to John as if he were here. He was not going to be that desperately lonely. He did not pine for John, was happy for him to be with Mary. If only that were quite true.

He was carted off by ambulance services. The world passed by his eyes as if it were no longer there. He was not the consulting detective here now, but the lovesick puppy he always swore he would never be.

He came out of the operation numb, as the doctor explained the complications that had occurred.

In the background stood John and Mary. He focused in on John, and let the rest of it fade away.


End file.
